*************************************************************************************************************
It was 1946. And I was 3...as young as Ishani now.
I was quite unaware of it then but Free India was still in her birth pangs. I recall a clamor in the streets which made me run up to the front door. And I saw a huge passing crowd of what I now know as khadiwalah congressmen with Gandhi topis on their crowns, waving the tricolor and shouting slogans I couldn't make out. In retrospect I am amazed that Gandhiji in his own queer ways united the poorest of the poor and the richest of the rich in their own selfish struggles...for, he made everyone aware that our British rulers were blood suckers...by going on frequent fasts dressed in his half-dhoti.
It was not altogether a false dawn...let me say that it now looks a freak dawn.
I was the second-born of a young and handsome couple. My didi, two years older to me, was my friend, guide and philosopher in her naughty ways...and I used to get the rap...because girl-kids were not supposed to be thrashed in our families...only rebuked and jailed in the coal cellar along with their accomplices.
So one day Father, who was a Science Assistant in the local high school, decided that enough was enough and engaged a home tutor to instill some discipline and perhaps some erudition in us.
That was the beginning of my enslavement to literacy that continues...
So, one evening there arrived at our home a very old teacher by name Laxminarasaish. I don't think I ever saw a gentler figure. He was very fair and skeletal. I still recall vividly the back of his anemic hands with swollen veins crisscrossing them. And the good thing about him was that he didn't believe in reading or writing. He used to recite a number of sweet poems from Sri Krishna Shatakam, and made us repeat them and get them by heart...I still have a couple of them by my heart, such as it is.
Within a week, didi realized that the old man was game for her pranks. No old and poor man can afford to get angry with kids of his employers. So she used to engage him in back chat, and rowdy pranks like getting up for going to the bathroom and vanishing into the neighbor's house leaving me to learn the 'lessons'. And Father used to get complaints from my mom that the home tutor was no good. And Father used to mildly rebuke the old man for not being tough enough with his wards. And the old gent used to smile sweetly and stroke us on our heads lovingly.
Father was too kind to the poor old brahmin to dismiss him and so he did the next worst thing a father could invent...he engaged another, younger, home tutor for our morning sessions.
This chap's name was Gundu Dikshitulu...an equally devout brahmin with tilak on his forehead...Father thought that only brahmins could teach effectively. Gundu Dikshitulu must have been 15 or 16, just passed out of Father's high school; and unemployed.
Gundu Dikshitulu was a task master...he made us write and read and also tried to teach us addition...I was yoked to a didi 2 good years older than me and I became the scapegoat...Dikshistlu was too young to comprehend that we needed separate coaching. He felt that the same lessons would do for both of us. And, since didi was untouchable, this young tyrant used to administer to me what we called in Telugu: Thoda Paayasam...meaning Thigh-Pinch.
The advantage of thigh-pinch is that it is a silent punishment unlike shouting and beating. The young tutor could always refute my tearful claims of physical abuse...and yet he could take out his anger on me.
After a couple of weeks I declined to sit with my didi in this tutorial class and my mom supported me vehemently. And didi refused to take tuition alone without my moral support.
That was the end of Father's efforts to educate us at home.
And he sent us both to the local Girls Elementary School...a sad and humiliating story that I blogged many times as the beginning of my persecution complex...
...Posted by Ishani
**********************************************************************************************************
...Father had been away, reorganizing some old upstate railroad. He returned in an executive mood and proceeded to shake up our home. In spite of my failure as a singer, he was still bound to have us taught music. We boys were summoned before him and informed that we must at once learn to play on something. We might not appreciate it now, he said, but we should later on. "You Clarence, will learn the violin. George, you the piano. Julian - well, Julian is too young yet. But you older boys must have lessons."
I was appalled at this order. At the age of ten it seemed a disaster to lose any more of my freedom. The days were already too short for our games after school; and now here was a chunk to come out of playtime three days every week. A chunk every day, we found afterward, because we had to practice....
...And then my teacher, he was queer too. He had a queer pickled smell...
...Clarence Day --- The Noblest Instrument
It was 1946. And I was 3...as young as Ishani now.
I was quite unaware of it then but Free India was still in her birth pangs. I recall a clamor in the streets which made me run up to the front door. And I saw a huge passing crowd of what I now know as khadiwalah congressmen with Gandhi topis on their crowns, waving the tricolor and shouting slogans I couldn't make out. In retrospect I am amazed that Gandhiji in his own queer ways united the poorest of the poor and the richest of the rich in their own selfish struggles...for, he made everyone aware that our British rulers were blood suckers...by going on frequent fasts dressed in his half-dhoti.
It was not altogether a false dawn...let me say that it now looks a freak dawn.
I was the second-born of a young and handsome couple. My didi, two years older to me, was my friend, guide and philosopher in her naughty ways...and I used to get the rap...because girl-kids were not supposed to be thrashed in our families...only rebuked and jailed in the coal cellar along with their accomplices.
So one day Father, who was a Science Assistant in the local high school, decided that enough was enough and engaged a home tutor to instill some discipline and perhaps some erudition in us.
That was the beginning of my enslavement to literacy that continues...
So, one evening there arrived at our home a very old teacher by name Laxminarasaish. I don't think I ever saw a gentler figure. He was very fair and skeletal. I still recall vividly the back of his anemic hands with swollen veins crisscrossing them. And the good thing about him was that he didn't believe in reading or writing. He used to recite a number of sweet poems from Sri Krishna Shatakam, and made us repeat them and get them by heart...I still have a couple of them by my heart, such as it is.
Within a week, didi realized that the old man was game for her pranks. No old and poor man can afford to get angry with kids of his employers. So she used to engage him in back chat, and rowdy pranks like getting up for going to the bathroom and vanishing into the neighbor's house leaving me to learn the 'lessons'. And Father used to get complaints from my mom that the home tutor was no good. And Father used to mildly rebuke the old man for not being tough enough with his wards. And the old gent used to smile sweetly and stroke us on our heads lovingly.
Father was too kind to the poor old brahmin to dismiss him and so he did the next worst thing a father could invent...he engaged another, younger, home tutor for our morning sessions.
This chap's name was Gundu Dikshitulu...an equally devout brahmin with tilak on his forehead...Father thought that only brahmins could teach effectively. Gundu Dikshitulu must have been 15 or 16, just passed out of Father's high school; and unemployed.
Gundu Dikshitulu was a task master...he made us write and read and also tried to teach us addition...I was yoked to a didi 2 good years older than me and I became the scapegoat...Dikshistlu was too young to comprehend that we needed separate coaching. He felt that the same lessons would do for both of us. And, since didi was untouchable, this young tyrant used to administer to me what we called in Telugu: Thoda Paayasam...meaning Thigh-Pinch.
The advantage of thigh-pinch is that it is a silent punishment unlike shouting and beating. The young tutor could always refute my tearful claims of physical abuse...and yet he could take out his anger on me.
After a couple of weeks I declined to sit with my didi in this tutorial class and my mom supported me vehemently. And didi refused to take tuition alone without my moral support.
That was the end of Father's efforts to educate us at home.
And he sent us both to the local Girls Elementary School...a sad and humiliating story that I blogged many times as the beginning of my persecution complex...
...Posted by Ishani
**********************************************************************************************************
No comments:
Post a Comment